


What's Up, Colonel?

by clgfanfic



Category: War of the Worlds (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-21
Updated: 2013-02-21
Packaged: 2017-12-03 04:08:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/693939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clgfanfic/pseuds/clgfanfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Norton is hunting colonels...</p>
            </blockquote>





	What's Up, Colonel?

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published in Remote Control #4, Kathy Agel editor, and reprinted in Green Floating Weirdness #17 both under the pen name Gillian Holt.

_"The least you could do is give me a good death scene."_

 

Harrison Blackwood stepped off the elevator, his usual long stride slowing, then pausing as he watched the Cottage's resident computer genius with rising interest.

The black man leaned forward slightly and commanded his voice-activated wheelchair in a soft voice, laced with deadly intent, "Gertrude, ahead five, rotate fifteen."

The chair complied and Blackwood folded his arms across his chest, continuing to study the man.  It was clear that Norton Drake was deeply involved in, well, in something that had engaged his full attention.

The astrophysicist's eyes narrowed when he saw that the Jamaican had something clutched in his hand, something that looked like a small, neon-pink plastic football with a suction cup protruding from the forward tapered-tip.  Harrison guessed the disk was approximately an inch in diameter, but what it was doing, sticking out of a child's football was a complete mystery to him.  That Norton had it in his possession caused him less concern – Drake could come up with the oddest assortment of items.

"Okay, Gertrude, forward, very slowly."

The wheelchair crept forward.  Norton hunched forward in the chair, clutching the mutated football close to his chest.  Harrison considered clearing his throat, but he was too curious to find out what his friend was doing to break his concentration.

Norton continued to glide closer to his Cray supercomputer workstation, and for the first time Harrison noticed the display on the large color monitor.  It was the facial region of one of the Mor'taxan aliens they were battling.  Around the border of the screen a black band encircled the creature's face like a picture frame.  A woman had once described the invaders as a cross between a giant frog and a slimy walnut, and the Cray's graphics – and Norton's digital touch-up – did the description justice.

Harrison's eyes narrowed as Norton slowly bore down on the Cray.  Was the computer expert all there?  Had he been under so much stress lately that he'd finally cracked?  Norton Drake, the man always ready with a cutting piece of wit and a smile… had they finally pushed him too far?

"I've got you now, my ugly," Drake said softly.  Rolling ever closer to the computer, he raised the football, pointed the suction cup at the screen and squeezed.

A small shaft shot from the football, zinging directly for the monitor, where the suction cup kissed the glass screen with an audible wet smack, plastered directly over the graphic alien's single Cyclops eye.

"Yes!" Drake exclaimed, throwing his hands up in a good imitation of an umpire signaling a field goal.  "A direct hit!  You're sushi, sucker."  He tilted the football up and blew across the tapered tip.  "Watch out, Colonel Sundance, your job is—"

"Already making plans for Bolivia, I see," Blackwood interrupted.

Norton jumped in his chair, immediately swinging it around to face the intruder.  "Doc!"  He shook his head and smiled sheepishly.  "Don't you know it isn't nice to eavesdrop on other people's fantasies?"

Harrison grinned and unfolded his arms.  "Ah, but how else am I going to gain deep philosophical insights into the nature of my friends?  Not to mention gathering stories to use against them."

Drake grinned.  He really didn't mind the intrusion, or the fact that Blackwood had overseen the moment of sheer play.  It was just too much fun being himself to worry about getting caught at it.

"Well, if you must know, I was indulging in a little vicarious alien butt-kicking."

Blackwood's smile deepened.  Their very own Lieutenant Colonel, Paul Ironhorse, had done a little alien butt-kicking of his own two days ago, managing to stop an alien from making off with the body of a highly trained, and well-informed, Air Force Colonel – not to mention all the information from the Blackwood Project's computer files.

Ironhorse had been at least as enthusiastic as Norton with his performance that day.

"I see the good Colonel is wearing off on you."

"Hmm… I guess he is partially contagious, but I'm not worried, Doc.  I have you to balance out any signs of military-itis in my mind."

Blackwood's face turned thoughtful, his forehead wrinkling slightly, his eyebrows straightening.

"What?" Drake asked, leaning forward in his chair.  He knew that look, and it usually meant the Colonel was in for a serious case of civilian-itis, compliments of one Harrison "no-titles-please" Blackwood.

"Can I borrow that… device?" Harrison asked innocently.

"Harrison," Drake said, drawing out the name as if speaking to a small child – and in some ways he was.  "Just _what_ do you have in mind?  I'd like to live to collect all the Social Security the government's going to owe me when this is over."

"Nothing you wouldn't do yourself, Norton.  Trust me."

"Somehow, I seriously doubt that, Doc," Drake mumbled.  "The only thing is, I'd think about it a lot first.  You know I hate the sight of blood."

Harrison wagged his eyebrows twice and stuck out his hand.  The computer expert turned and tugged the projectile free, sliding it back into the football-shaped launcher.  He tossed it over his shoulder without turning around.  "Here's one, and," he leaned forward, retrieving an identical – except in color, this one was neon-green – device from among the computer equipment on the work station, tossing it to the astrophysicist as he turned, "here's a backup, just in case.  And if you're—"

Harrison raised his finger to his lips.  "The walls, Norton, they might have ears."

The black man nodded dramatically.  "I think I'll go up and see what Mrs. P has stashed in the refrigerator."

"That sounds like a plan," Harrison said, then headed for the elevator.

Emerging from the lift, the pair headed for the kitchen, apparently intending to carry through on their plans to grab a snack.  As they closed on the kitchen, Harrison veered off, doubling back to Ironhorse's office.  He gripped the loaded footballs, one in each hand, then tucked his hands up under his jacket.  The door was slightly ajar, so he eased it open with his toe and stepped inside, rapidly scanning the room.  It was empty.

Harrison sighed.  Where would the Colonel be?  Out training with Omega?

Possibly.

Out running the perimeter of the property?

More likely.

Out with the horses?

Too early.

Or… the living room?

Like a splinter he could feel but couldn't see, Harrison knew the Colonel was in the living room.  Reading, more than likely.  He smiled, heading out in search of his intended target.

Entering the hall he nearly ran into Suzanne, who was just leaving Harrison's office.  Still clutching a football in his palm, he extricated a hand from his jacket and held a finger to his lips.

Her face drew up in confusion and curiosity and she started to ask him what, exactly, it was that he was holding, but Blackwood stopped her.

He stepped up very close, leaned over, and whispered into her ear, using his very best Elmer Fudd imitation, "Shhh, be vewwy, vewwy quiet.  I'm hunting Colonels."

Suzanne stifled a laugh as she pulled back to stare incredulously at the leader of the Blackwood Project.  She nodded toward the living room, more than willing to play along.  Harrison smiled and she thought she could see just the hint of an evil gleam shining in the blue orbs.

 _This ought to be good_ , she thought.  _One bad case of civilian-itis coming up, Colonel!_

She watched Harrison head out for his encounter with the infamous Special Forces officer, a man who had once commanded one of the most elite anti-terrorist unit, Delta Squad.  Now he had his own hand-picked Omega Squad – any time, any place, any objective…

She giggled softly.  _We'll see about that!_

Why, she thought, Colonel Paul Ironhorse was a man who knew more ways to kill with his bare hands than she knew fungi types.  She _had_ to see this.  Blackwood, to quote one of the Colonel's more colorful expressions, was probably going to end up "dead meat on this planet."

She tiptoed down the hallway, hoping that Harrison's regular footfall would mask her own.  She was met by Norton, who grinned at her with a "he's-at-it-again" expression.  Together they skulked down to the entryway into the living room.  The action had already begun.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Ironhorse fought the urge to look up as Harrison entered the room.  He'd heard him earlier, entering his office, then pausing to talk to Suzanne in the hall, and finally the determined footfall as Blackwood sought him out.

Sitting in one of the wing-back chairs near the fireplace, the Colonel was almost through a text on advancements in computer technologies.  He'd be damned if he'd feel like an idiot around any of the Blackwood Project members any more than he had to.  The heat from the fire was just slightly too warm, but Ironhorse wasn't willing to move from the comfortable half-slouch.  A fine film of sweat covered his face, and he knew he was going to have to move soon or take a shower before dinner.

Blackwood arrived.  Ironhorse kept reading, forcing the man to either say something or make some noise to win his attention, but then he felt it, an unusual, odd sense to the civilian, and Ironhorse found himself raising his eyes without conscious control.  His battle sense erupted in a flash.

_Thwump!_

The Colonel's eyes crossed as he tried unsuccessfully to identify the projectile clinging to his forehead.  Short shaft, plastic, suction cup end, fired from… a football?

"Blackwood!" he bellowed.

"Ah, come on, Colonel," Harrison said, his voice reminding the Army officer of a young boy – younger than Debi, from the silly expression on his face.  "I got you dead to rights, admit it, Ironhorse."  Blackwood grinned triumphantly.  "The least you could do is give me a good death scene."

Suzanne and Norton peeked around the corner as Harrison made his proclamation.  They watched Ironhorse rise.  The move was under his absolute control. It was too controlled.

"Harrison's dead meat for sure," Norton said softly.

And he was, too, until Ironhorse heard the softly spoken words.  The others didn't seem to realize it, but he really _did_ have a sense of humor.  And one of the things he enjoyed most was slipping in the off-beat comment or action that stopped them dead in their tracks, forcing them to reevaluate what he knew and what his past experiences were.  Of course, he also dropped questions he already knew the answers to just so he'd be sure to keep them off guard.

When Norton's comment slipped past the immediate urge to throttle Harrison, a plan of attack hardened in Ironhorse's mind like hot metal slipping into water.  He'd give them all something to think about.

Already on his feet, the Colonel knew he'd have to play this just right or loose face.  He could see Harrison had another of the damned loaded footballs.  The game was on…

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Harrison saw the Colonel push to his feet, his eyes speaking clearly the violence about to be perpetrated on his person.  Perhaps this had been an ill-conceived plan after all.

Then something changed.  The Colonel pulled up, his body quaking slightly as if a tremor had passed over him.  He turned slightly confused black eyes on the astrophysicist.

"Paul?" Harrison said softly, disliking the turn of events.  Something was wrong.  Very wrong.

Ironhorse took a step forward, swayed, and had to step back to regain his balance.  "Blackwood… what's… going on here?" he asked slowly, deliberately, as if each word required his total concentration to be formed and spoken.

"Colonel, what's wrong?" Harrison asked, taking a step closer.

Suzanne drew in a breath and started to step into the living room, but Norton grabbed her hand and shook his head, nodding back at the two men with a grin.

Ironhorse watched Harrison's expression shift, a look of sincere concern molding lines of worry around his mouth and eyes.  For a fraction of a second he reconsidered the plan, but it had already gone too far.  There was no turning back now.  He was committed and he would teach the scientist a valuable lesson Blackwood swore he already knew – that assumptions were dangerous things.

Harrison watched with a rapidly growing horror as the Colonel's swaying increased until he fell back against the wingback chair, nearly knocking it over.  Hands with long, slender fingers groped in the air, looking for a handhold that wasn't there.  Ironhorse sucked in a sharp breath, his eyes growing large, then he slowly crumpled to the floor.

Blackwood's eyes locked on the Colonel's, and he saw confusion and pain.  Ironhorse's face wrinkled slightly in an echo of the emotions.  Another breath caught in his throat, and the Colonel groaned softly as he hit the floor.  Once lying on the thick pile carpet, his shoulders hunched forward, his chin tucking into his chest while his legs moved like a man climbing steps.  His arms encircled his midsection, his hands shaking uncontrollably.  For added effect, he ground out a groan that pulled Harrison to him like a magnet.

Blackwood was dumbfounded, locked in a waking nightmare to which he had no response.  The second football slipped from his hand, hitting the carpet and wobbling to collide with Ironhorse's still-moving legs.

Harrison closed the space between them, dropping down to his knees.  He didn't see Ironhorse reach for the abandoned weapon, only a movement that mimicked a tight cramp snapping the man in half.  Reaching out, Blackwood gripped the Colonel's shoulder, calling out, "Suzanne!"

Nothing.

He looked over his shoulder and repeated the call.  "Suzanne!"

When he looked back, Harrison was struck between the eyes by a flying suction-pointed shaft.

_Thwump!_

Harrison froze.  He was unable to move, his body refusing to obey any and all of the several commands that overloaded his synapses: Hit him.  Hug him.  Yell at him.  Retreat.

Before he could do anything, Ironhorse was on his feet, reaching out a hand. He pulled the astrophysicist up.  There was loud laughter coming from behind him, and Harrison realized how ridiculous he and Ironhorse must look – two grown men standing with what looked like swizzle sticks sticking to their foreheads.

"Hey, what's up, Colonel?" Norton called, sending Suzanne into a fit of laughter that left her crying.

"Be vewwy, vewwy quiet," she managed to repeat around gasps of air.  "I'm hunting Colonels!"

Norton and Suzanne roared again.  Ironhorse, aware of the audience he'd had all along, tried hard to keep the crooked smile off his face, but it was a futile effort.  He gave in to the grin and even chuckled softly as he dislodged the projectile.  It came away with an odd sounding pop-smack that sent Suzanne and Norton back into hysterics.  Even Harrison had to grin.

"Nice shot, Doctor," Ironhorse said, then pulled himself up into his best Special-Forces-Colonel posture and barked out.  "Very funny, people.  I'll have you know it was just a damned good thing I wasn't armed."

With that he started to stalk out of the door before he dissolved into helpless laughter himself.  Just looking at Blackwood would have been enough to break through the usually carefully constructed walls.

"Colonel?" came a voice, following after him.

He stopped, forced a neutral expression onto his face, along with a look of righteous frustration in his eyes, then turned, carefully avoiding a look at Blackwood's face.  "What is it now?"

"Where'd you—?  How—?  Wh—?" Harrison stuttered, unable to complete the question.

"Where'd you take acting lessons, Colonel?" Norton asked, saving Harrison the effort.

Twin black eyebrows rose slowly, gracefully, like an raven's wings.  "High school theater club.  West Point thespians.  And most importantly, Delta Force Invade-Pursuade-Eliminate exercises."

Three jaws went slack.

Ironhorse planted his heel, executed an about-face and disappeared into his office, a soft, rich laugh rolling out from behind the closed door.


End file.
